The 47th Hunger Games
by internet cat
Summary: Monet is thrown into the crazy 47th Hunger Games. Is a whole house full of orphans that need her back in District 10 enough to keep her alive?
1. Numb

**Words: 3,389**

**A/N: Hi! This is my first story (I've submitted) so I'd love some reviews and such. Tributes are not open to be submitted (unless you would really like me to take a look at your name/personality) and I'll probably have the next chapter out sometime this week.**

**Enjoy!**

When one thinks of District 10, I'm sure a picture of an ugly, fat, cud-chewing _cow_ pops into their mind. I don't know why the word livestock seems to trigger the thought of one, but I've seen it, on the faces of visitors from the Capitol and other districts: the surprise at seeing we are more than dim-witted ranchers that tend to cows.

Now of course, I'm not saying ranchers are bad; my dad…was one. Yet District 10 has so much more to offer: delicious goat cheese, top quality cotton, and the softest rabbits you will ever find. I sit among them now, those soft rabbits, watching the sunrise and tasting the delicate morning dew on my tongue. I could stay in their pen for hours, watching their noses twitch and itching behind their ears when they request it. For some reason, I always get attached to the little guys, leaving me heartbroken when our witch of a director demands that I chop them up, skin them for those desirable pelts, and cook them for dinner or package them up to be sold at the market. I don't blame her; I have the best accuracy by far with an axe than anyone else at the community home, but having the slight satisfaction of being higher than the average does not make the task any lighter.

You'd think that by now, this process of growing attached to these bunnies and then removing their heads would be slightly maddening. In any normal circumstance, like for someone from District 1, 2, or maybe even 4, it would be; but I've learned to hold it in and save it for later, for when I can curl up under the rough blanket I wove by hand and cry about the loss of my parents and all those bunny lives and the sad state of my life, my district, and our nation.

But I wait, because times are tough and there's no room for failure or breakdowns. I'm absentmindedly swirling my finger through the hay on the ground when I hear my name called.

"Monet Mercury Locklear, if ya' do not get in right now we au' gonna be late and you gonna look like a pile of animal crap when we get tha'!"

I roll my eyes and reply, "Yes, _Uma_." I grimace at the repulsive nickname she demands all of us call her. She says it means 'mother' in some language used sometime before the Dark Days. I honestly think it's because her real name is something repulsive (or so I hear), and I know I would be a little ashamed of my name if I was as misfortunate as her.

The reason it agitates me is this: she will never be a mother to me. I don't know how she got stuck with the job of our tormentor/caretaker, but it certainly wasn't because she likes kids. On a scale of one to ten of my opinion of something or someone, one being the rabbits, five being an uneducated rancher, and ten being the Capitol, she is probably a six or seven.

"HUSTLE, MONET! GET OUT A' THA RABBIT PEN AN' GIT IN HERE!"

I reluctantly pat my favorite rabbit, Sheeba, on her fluffy golden tail and stand up, scattering around the other inhabitants of the pen. On the way up to the house (or should I say prison) I do anything but 'hustle.' I stop to smell the lovely wildflowers that grow in between the cracks of our busted up concrete drive. I smile mischievously because their persistence to grow in even the most hopeless of places reminds me of the rebellion, which I hope, like these flowers, will rise again.

I turn around and am almost whacked in the face with the business end of Uma's broom. Thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I have just enough time to duck and roll out of the way. I take a few seconds to compose myself then walk out from behind the tree that had just been my savior.

"You might not want to hit me…what if I get reaped and everyone asks why I have some mysterious looking bruises? That might not be too good for your reputation." I finish off my witty remark with a wink and a sly smirk. She is stunned, because I have both just treated the reaping lightly and threatened her, in a way. I leave her standing there with her mouth hanging slightly ajar and the broom clutched loosely in her arms.

She knows I'm joking, of course. I am probably the only non-career, poor child aged twelve through eighteen that the prospect of being reaped does not scare. The one benefit of being an orphan is that the district makes sure we are fed, meaning we do not have to take tesserae, so the odds of being chosen for me are almost zero. I am sixteen, meaning my name is in the bowl five times, but that's practically nothing to worry about.

All the other children in the house, on the other hand, are terrified; especially the twelve year olds. They run up to me as I walk into the house, grabbing my blouse, my legs, my arms, anything they can make contact with. I crouch down and transform into the sweet, understanding girl that only these kids can mold me into.

"Now listen up, boys and girls," I say, mocking the ridiculous Capitol accent that our district escort, Bellona Prisco, holds a proud claim to. "I would not want to pick any of you silly children, you'd take a _dreadful _amount of time to scrub down, with all that dirt on you, and you'd eat up all the food!" I give one of the nearest girls a teasing poke in the belly, and she giggles.

I stand up and transform back into my serious self. "You all look beautiful."

A fierce "hey!" from the back of the room makes me laugh unintentionally. "And you look very handsome, Merrit," I say, shooting him a playful look.

"Now, go get in a big line in the mess hall and wait for Uma, we don't want any peacekeepers knocking on our door looking for you because we left you behind, do we?"

As I walk upstairs to get changed, I ruffle a few heads of hair and give reassuring pats on the back. All I can do is hope that I've made what will be the first of many of the most frightening days of their lives a little less nerve-wracking. By the tentative smiles and the nervous chatter floating around the thin-walled house, I can tell that they're all in a better mood, and I silently congratulate myself for this small victory.

When I reach tiny room, I almost gasp out loud. There, on my bed, is the most wonderful dress I have ever seen. It is deep blue, made out of a shimmery fabric that ripples like water when I run my fingers over it. It is cinched at the waist and embroidered with lace at the neck and bottom. Without even stopping to wonder where it came from, I slip it over my head and look at myself in the mirror. It falls just below my knees at a sort of slant, brings out the best of my features, and for the first time in my life, I feel beautiful. While I am observing myself in the mirror, something behind me catches my eye. I whip around to find Maria standing behind me, a sheepish smile on her soft features. I jump on her and pull her into a hug.

She leans out of the embrace and says, "I'm guessing you like it?"

Maria is my best an only friend. While everyone else was teasing me for my pale blue eyes, calling me 'blind' and other foolish nicknames, Maria looked past my odd appearance and befriended me. She lives on the town square, in the hide shop, with her father and mother. She is not exactly wealthy, but she is definitely one of the well-to-do citizens of District 10.

"Oh, Maria," I cooed, running my hands over the dress once again, "how did you afford this?"

"Well, I just couldn't stand to see you wear those…," she blushed and looked at the ground. "…rags at the reaping anymore, so I saved up my allowance for a whole year and bought the fabric. Then I had Mother sew it for you. Isn't it lovely?"

I blankly stare at her because there are not enough words to express my gratitude; tears well up in my eyes as I hug her once more. Then the moment is broken and she's back to her sarcastic, funny self. She wrinkles her nose and fans the air with her hands. "You better go take a shower before you stink up that dress and send Bellona running off the stage!"

We giggle uncontrollably as I drag out my wash tub and fill it with lukewarm water. I splash her and shout, "Oh, look, they were actually nice enough to give me water a _degree_ hotter than normal today!"

Her eyes widen and I clamp my hand over my mouth. We run to the window in one fluid movement, knowing that heavy punishment awaits us if any peacekeepers are outside.

The street is completely empty. I feel as if a thousand pounds have been lifted off of my chest with a single breath.

All the happiness of the previous moment fades into a serious silence. Maria steps outside while I undress and bathe. I take an awful lot of time cleaning myself; I do not want to dirty Maria's present. I scrub myself down until my skin is pink and brush every single tangle out of my hair. When I slip on my dress for the second time, I find it looks much better on a clean body.

Maria reenters the room, and I take note of her appearance for the first time: a faded red thing that she's worn for years. Her short, sandy bangs are tucked behind her ear in an adorable looking way. She appears so much like an innocent child to me that I am suddenly filled with anxiety not for myself, but for her getting chosen.

She starts something she calls a 'french braid' (I take a mental note to find out what French means) on the top of my head and braids my hair down my back.

My hair is the one thing about myself that I take pride in. It falls to my waist in a cacophony of thick, dark waves. I haven't had cut since I was six. A long time ago, it's length was much to the distaste of my parents. They constantly nagged me about it, lightly tugging at my locks and huffing with frustration.

_"Mo, you really must shorten your hair," said Father in the intellectual tone he insisted on using. "It is getting quite long, yes. Soon it will reach the floor, and you'll be dragging rubbish throughout the house; that will not make Mother happy at all, oh no."_

_ I giggle and tell him that I will grow it out, just to show him I can keep it clean and trash-free._

"Monet. Monet!" Maria snaps her fingers in front of my nose and I speed out of my memories, resting in reality once again. "We really must be going. We're going to be late!"

I tug on my one and only pair of shoes, lacking anything else to wear. I think my black, rugged boots ruin my elegant ensemble. Before I can look too closely at myself, I am being pulled down the creaking stairs and through the front door to the back of a cluster of the orphans walking to the reaping.

It is a short trek, only taking us what I guess to be less than ten minutes. The line is filled with concerned murmurs. A cry of anxiety even escapes from the front of the group; the source is subdued. Someone at the edge of our pack whimpers consistently throughout the walk.

As soon as we enter the square, there is only silence.

Maria pats me on the back and goes off to say goodbye to her parents ("In case the unthinkable happens," she whispers), leaving me even more worried than I was before. I wait in line with the other sixteen year olds, check in with a cold, impersonal Capitol worker, and go to stand in my designated area. The ropes dividing our ages make me feel penned in; like one of our rabbits, knowing there is no escape and awaiting the small chance that I will get picked to die.

I am started by a firm hand on my shoulder, but it is only Maria. She grabs my wrist and gives it a reassuring squeeze as Bellona steps up to the microphone. She sticks out like a sore thumb in her silly clothes; her hair is longer than mine, tied back into a ponytail of dread locks that sparkle like gold, with a matching jumpsuit and six-inch heels to boot. The whole ensemble seems to be glowing against her ebony skin.

"Hello, District 10! It is now time to pick the _lucky _tributes that will participate in the 47th Hunger Games!" She looks at us expectantly, like she wants us to clap for the event that has cruelly killed hundreds of children. Only a couple of representatives from the Capitol clap; the rest of the district stands stiff and silent. Tension buzzes through the air so thick I can almost taste it.

Bellona realizes she will not receive any response, so she immediately continues her scheduled speech. "But before we start, here is a _special_ video made for _you _in the _Capitol_!"

The Panem national anthem plays in the background while a pathetic mash-up of clips slide across the screen. The speaker (who I assume is the head Gamemaker this year, Vladimir Kouris) starts the ancient speech that we hear every year.

_"War. Terrible War. Orphans. Widows. A motherless child. One of our districts destroyed. All because you rebelled, bit the hand that fed and nourished you. Yet the capitol prevailed, and the rebellion was snuffed out. Now we are healing; but what you have done cannot go unpunished. In penance for your mutiny, you will participate in The Hunger Games. Each year, two children, ages 12-18, will be chosen from each district, one boy and one girl. These 'tributes' will train in survival and weaponry, and fight to death in the arena. One tribute alone will prevail; they will be showered with gifts and wealth, showing the Capitol's generosity and forgiveness. It has been a long and tedious process, but together, as one nation, we will prevail and _thrive_."_

Bellona starts talking just as the video ends, because I'm sure she's heard it just about a million times and can recite it word for word in her sleep.

"Wonderful, yes?" She wipes away a wistful tear; wearing that expression that she had worn before, waiting for our applause. When she again finds it is quiet enough to hear the ring of a cow bell in a pasture far away, she _click clack click_'s over to one of the glass bowls and shrieks, "Ladies first!"

Bellona dips her manicured nails (which are gold, might I add) into the slips and takes an awful long time dramatically whipping her hands around. I am gripping Marias hand so tightly that she has to lightly tap my fingers to make me release.

_"I guess I'm more nervous than I thought I was,"_ I think to myself as Bellona snatches up a slip and _click clack click_'s back to the microphone. She again takes her time, fumbling with the tape and even dropping the slip. She retrieves it, cheeks flushing, and reads the name out loud with sadistic cheer.

"Evangeline Lowery!"

I do not even have a moment of relief before I break out in a cold sweat and my jaw drops. I want to cry, scream, curl up into a ball, explode, attack everyone in my pen, and more, in one instant. Evangeline is one of the girls from the orphanage. The girl we all affectionately call 'pudge' for her round, blushing cheeks and her slightly protruding belly. The girl I had, just thirty minutes ago, told that she would not get chosen. I had poked her stomach and ruffled her hair and told her everything would be alright.

I feel like a dirty liar.

She calmly slips out from her section and walks towards the stage. Several hands reach out and grab on, tugging me back, but it is too late. Pudge does not even reach the peacekeepers that are going to escort her up before I thrash away from my captors and make for the front of the square.

I scream as loud as I can, afraid no one will hear.

"I volunteer! I volunteer for Evangeline!"

My voice cracks, so I repeat myself. I want to strong and determined, like one of the careers.

I subconsciously think it's horrible that I am already changing myself for the Capitol, but I cannot let that bother me now. I must come home to these kids.

Bellona looks a little more than startled, because we haven't had a volunteer here for as long as I can remember, and we've certainly never had one with so much vigor.

"Um, yes, sweetie, step up to the stage, please."

It is Evangeline's turn to be surprised. Her mouth and eyes are as wide as they can be. She is carted away, back to Uma_,_ standing in the sea of adults watching the commotion. I turn around, knowing if I look at her any longer, I will break down, just as she is starting to do now. I can hear it, her wracking sobs. She fights the peacekeepers to let her go, so she can run to me.

I wish with all my might for her to be quiet, so she does not cause any trouble, and calmly let myself be escorted to stand next to Bellona. "And what's your name, little lady?" She shoves the microphone in my face, but I do not let myself be startled.

"Monet Locklear," I say with no emotion. I keep a completely straight face, because I cannot muster anything else for fear of breaking down.

Bellona smiles and pats me on the arm. She then suddenly whips around and proclaims, "Now, it's time for the boys!" She snaps back over to the boy's bowl, leaving me standing in front of the whole nation, trying not to cry. Once the ceremonial finger dance is completed, she snatches out a slip and reads the name aloud.

"Merrit Cox!"

My expression goes slack. I cannot react as I did before, because I am live, in front of the whole nation; but the glue that is currently holding me together is starting to slip out of the sides of my life, leaving me a hollow shell that could blow off the stage with the next gust of wind like tumbleweed.

The Capitol is having fun with this, aren't they?

Merrit is a little over four and a half feet and as thin as a stick. His wheat-colored hair is in a constant state of confusion, sticking whichever way it pleases at varying intervals.

And all though he may seem tough by the way he speaks, he is terrified of almost everything.

I turn ever-so-slightly towards the group of older boys and lift my eyebrows in emphasis. They cannot let this boy into the arena; he would barely make it off the plate. I catch a few boys' attention, but they all immediately stare at their shoes with shame. Most of the others are looking off in various directions.

All but one.

Kit Romero looks me straight in the face responds to my plea with an "I volunteer."


	2. Somebody That I Used To Know

**Words:****1,952**

**A/N: Hi, guys! Sorry for the short(er) chapter, but it's been almost a WEEK since I posted the first one and I didn't want to keep you waiting (if there's anyone even waiting to read it xD). By the way, forgot to add it in the first chapter, but I do not own The Hunger Games or anything to do with it or its franchise. I also do not own any of the song titles I've been/will be using for the chapter titles.**

**13ASB: Thank you SO much for your kind review, it really motivated me to keep writing.**

**As always, I'd love to hear your opinion on the story so **_**speak up**_**, and enjoy!**

No. No, no _no_. Of all the boys in ten, I might have to brutally murder the one that I know and could even consider as a friend.

I mentally slap myself after considering it might have been better for Merrit to go into the arena. Kit has a much better chance of surviving, yet I cannot shake the feeling of betrayal. I continue to stare at him, searching for some kind of emotion. My eyes say it all: _"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" _He ignores me still, seemingly looking somewhere off in the distance. He walks down the path that was kindly made for him and steps up to the stage, no escorts needed. I only momentarily ponder why, but then realize I needed them because I must have looked mad, screaming and breaking away from my restraints. Kit looks cool, calm, and collected, and certainly saner than I did.

I'm sure he's already racking up sponsors in the Capitol. He's good-looking to say the least; years of riding and training horses in the field have given him tan, weathered skin. He's the perfect picture of dark and mysterious: brown eyes and hair, one eye covered, the constant look of angst and distrust on his face. I bet they eat that stuff up.

Bellona looks like she's about to faint from excitement. Before her face was plastered with an obviously fake and over-cheery grin, but now her hair is falling out of her previously well-maintained ponytail and she seems to be having trouble standing up. Maybe I would feel bad for her if biggest concern was being chosen to die in an arena full of children instead of if anyone else would be wearing the same blouse as her at a party with an endless buffets and servers with maimed tongues tending to her every need.

As well as she can in her flustered state, she turns to Kit with a weary smile and asks, "Now what is your name, young man?"

He flashes a bright, toothy smile and replies, "Kit. Kit Romero." I can practically _see_ all the women in the Capitol sighing and twirling their hair at the TV. I can also see them pulling out their checkbooks and writing him enough to send him a house while he's in the arena.

I find myself staring at him openly with my eyes in slits, because this is _not _Kit. This is not the Kit I know.

The Kit I know is quiet and humble. He doesn't talk much. I'm the same way, and it's why we've grown to be…acquaintances. Our district has a bonfire every week to try to lighten up the mood and make us forget the incessant growling in our stomachs. Maria's parents don't let her go because they don't want her to 'mingle with the commoners,' so I used to go just to sit alone and try to enjoy the warmth of the fire. One evening, Kit and I found ourselves alone at the edge of the little get-together. He started up a casual conversation with me and I learned he wasn't really the sullen outcast I'd thought he was. He found that once you looked past the fact that I was from the charity home and had out-of-this-world eyes, I was a pretty cool gal.

Since then, it had silently become tradition for us to gravitate towards each other and enjoy each other's company. He'd pull out his guitar and I'd hum silly tunes, and after a while, I'd just sit and listen as he played.

Kit is a something of a genius with his guitar. I don't know where he got it or how he learned, but he can spin melodies on the spot and carry them on for hours, making them up as he goes. I'm sure we looked weird, laughing and singing in the corner by ourselves, but we didn't care. We were happy and that's all that mattered.

As I look at the boy standing next to me, I feel like I've never met him before. He is trying to win over the crowd before we even arrive in the Capitol. I feel a light tap on my shoulder and snap out of the daze I've (apparently) been in. Bellona leans in and whispers hushed-like in my ear.

"I said, shake hands with your fellow tribute." I feel like an idiot. Not only do I look like I was sizing up my competition (making me seem like a heartless jerk), but I am also probably the laughing-stock of Panem for completely zoning out. I look up to see Kit extending his hand to me; I take it and give it a firm shake.

I recoil from him like he's a dangerous snake, but not before he can run his thumb along mine in a comforting way. I try to look in his eyes once more and hopefully find a hint of what he's thinking. My efforts are futile. Peacekeepers drag us into the City Hall as Bellona screeches, "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!" I hear the _click clack click _of her following us inside. The doors slam shut and everything goes dark.

The carpet is soft and plush (I can tell because my heavy shoes sink right into it) and there is a slight fragrance of jasmine. The only thing I hear is the stomp of the peacekeeper's boots and Bellona complaining about the inconvenience of the 'power being out in the building' and how 'the reaping should be treated with more respect, meaning we should at least have _power_.'

"_Wonderful, our reunions will be in complete darkness,"_ I think to myself. I am shoved into a room and thank my lucky stars that there is a window with a dim light filtering through it, fighting against a buildup of dust and mistreatment. The only article of furniture is a cracked vinyl couch. When I sit down, it makes an uncomfortable squelching noise that hurts my ears. I pick at some loose stuffing and try not to move (lest I make another odd noise) until the door squeaks open and a burly peacekeeper with hard eyes announces, "You have three minutes."

This is where I start to think it would have been better if there were no lights.

Every single person that walks into the room is sobbing. I have to look them all in the face and lie, telling them I will come home. One after another come, individually, until the flow starts to lessen and there are only a few people who wait outside.

I am doing particularly well with my emotions until Merrit and Eva enter, holding hands, and sit in my lap. One tear drops out of my eye, and before I know it, many more follow, leaving my vision clouded and my face red. I burrow my nose into their soft hair and murmur comforting things to them and myself alike.

Time flies by and they are ripped away from me. As she is grabbed from my arms, Eva screams "Take this!" and throws a glittering object at the ground. Then the door slams and I'm left alone to investigate the present I've been left: a shining silver bracelet. I slip it onto my wrist and twist it around, admiring the amazing detail that has been put into the engravings on the sides. All the livestock that has ever existed are carved into the cool metal perfectly, down to the shine in the hooves of a steer or the sharpness of a rooster's beak. I sit there for quite a while, maybe thirty more minutes, fooling with my trinket. I wonder why I've been stuck here so long, but I immediately realize the answer to my question is somewhere in the building.

"It seems Kit's _quite_ popular," I say to no one in particular.

Yet, thanks to Kit's so-called 'popularity,' I have time to transform my face back into the emotionless slate I had _mostly_ maintained while on-stage. I study myself in the grimy window and try not to rub at my face. It isn't too red, and I decide I do not look like I have been crying my eyes out; instead, I look only mildly flustered, which I deem an appropriate mood for the situation I've landed myself in.

I begin to think of a strategy, but soon realize I do not have the mentality to do so. Today's events have drained me emotionally and physically, so I simply curl up in the corner by the window and watch the dust flecks float by until who seems to be my personal escort for the day shows up and retrieves me.

I am led down a long, dark corridor, the feeling in the air becoming more damp and heavy as we walk along. Just as I feel I am about to suffocate, we burst through the back doors of the Justice Building and into the train station.

Confronted with a blinding light and many people screeching over each other, I cover my eyes and ears. It is as bright as a thousand suns, and I wonder if the solar flares that took out most of the human race had come again; or maybe the train station had caught on fire.

"Oh, goody, I'll die of fire instead of violently, in the arena. Just what I wanted,"I mumble sarcastically, so quiet I can barely hear myself over the chatter.

I peek out from behind my shielding hands ever-so-timidly to find my fate is worse: _reporters_. They tumble over one another, acting like animals fighting for a meal. Their ferocity frightens me so much that I almost cower into my peacekeeper, but I stop myself. I then question why I am even scared of these silly people in their overzealous clothing, why they unnerve me more than the thought of twenty-three teens armed with weapons out for my blood ever could. Before I have time to further consider this prospect, I am being ushered onto the train that will transport me to my inevitable fate.

I step inside and nearly bump heads with Kit. If he's going to play dirty, lying to the Capitol to help himself, why can't I? A little voice in the back of my head whispers to me, _"But isn't he your friend? What about on the stage? Isn't this being a little harsh?"_ I mentally beat that voice with a club and turn to him with my arms crossed.

"It seems you'd had _quite _a large amount of visitors, considering they kept me in that stupid room for such a long time. Someone's popular, hmm?" I question with a sneer and obvious distaste in my voice. I already regret what I've just said before I even finish saying it. The cheerful mask he's been wearing shatters into a look of hurt.

He's about to reply to my jest when Bellona bounds up to us with her peppy self and squeaks, "Sorry for the wait, loves. One of those bumbling idiots they call peacekeepers got lost looking for you! You would think he would remember the place, considering he had just brought you there." She then absentmindedly pats both of us on the head and wonders off into the dining car.

I reach out for Kit's arm, but he brushes me off with a quiet, "It's whatever." He speeds out of the room and leaves me alone to my own devices, which might not be a very good idea, because I feel like pulling out my hair; and I don't know how happy Bellona, or anyone else for that matter, would be about that.


	3. Island in the Sun

**Words: 3,186**

**A/N: Agh, such a difficult chapter to write, I had like 3 fits of writer's block. Well, here it is! And yes, prepare yourself for the sadistic nightmares that most The Hunger Games stories bring. Enjoy!**

I feel a kiss on my forehead and open my eyes. There, in front of me, is my father. He sits across from me in a plush chair that resides on the train. My thought process does not even consider why or how he is here before I spring out of my sleeping position and yell, "_Daddy!"_

I envelop him in one of the biggest bear hugs I've ever given anyone; nuzzling my head under his chin and feeling his deep, booming laugh reverberate through my bones.

Suddenly, like a wisp of smoke, my mother appears on the armrest of the chair, looking just as I'd always imagined her from the pictures I've seen and the stories I've heard. She leans down and throws her arms around me as well.

"Oh, Mo, how I've always wanted to meet you…" she trills angelically. My parents tighten their arms around me, making me feel more secure than I ever have.

But my bliss is short-lived. They continue to constrict me, clawing my back and crushing my lungs. When I look up to ask them why they are doing this, their faces have contorted and transformed into one of the devil. Just before I black out, my mother hisses, "…to make you pay for what you have done to us!"

I wake up screaming silently and flailing around on the couch that I had seemingly fallen asleep on. The sound builds up so much that it explodes out of my chest with a boom. I sound like a dying animal. A man and woman I don't know burst into the room and attempt to calm me, but I cannot be consoled. I feel a sudden adrenaline rush and lash out on my restraints; the female takes a kick to the stomach and doubles over in pain. I scream until my throat is raw and my voice crackles and then pass out of light headedness.

When I come to, I hear quiet, worried chatter and the rustling of several bodies circulating around me. Light dances over my eyelids, too bright for me to even dare open them. Yet I don't have to; someone comments, "Look! She's up!"

I do not have time to consider how they know, because people crowd around me, asking me questions and patting me all over. I am about to have another panic attack when a loud, female voice commands, "Leave _her_ alone." There are quiet scuttles as they back away from (what I assume) is my bed. The sterile smell, the faint beeping sounds, and the scratchy paper blanket draped over my body trigger one word: _hospital_.

The voice leans in and murmurs, much less forcefully, "How ya' feelin', hun?" I sigh with relief, because the accent of the woman suggests she is from my district. Along with the accent, something familiar tickles at the back of my mind, because I know her voice.

My hand flies to my throat in sudden realization. _It doesn't hurt anymore!_ I feel just a bit more comforted, because these people _must _be good if they have fixed me all up.

I sit up and take my first look around; a pair of green-brown, smiling eyes stare back into mine. "Well, hun, aren't you happy to be up?" The eyes lean out, and I find I do know the voice: it is Arwen Vickers, one of the three living victors from District 10.

If you didn't know who she was, you would think she had been in the army at some point. Tan skin, rough, blonde hair, toned muscles, always favoring combat boots and camouflage patterned clothing over whatever the new trend was in the Capitol.

That or you would assume that she had been a career. In that case, you would be correct. Although the out-lying districts are expected to be complete failures and die in the bloodbath, Arwen excelled at almost everything. Spear throwing, bow and arrow, swordplay and sparring, etc; you name it, she could do it.

She won her games by brute force and just a bit of smarts. Her arena had been a typical forest, with trees varying from oak to pine. She killed many by sheer speed and a large selection of weapons, others with the help of her sadistic buddies.

In the end, it was just her and the boy from four. They had once been allies, but they knew both of them could not survive. He followed her with a handful of throwing knives, and seeing no escape, she climbed a weeping willow. Concealed by the branches and the long, dark leaves, she took aim and shot an arrow through each of his limbs, two at the wrists, two at the ankles, pinning him to the ground. She then jumped 20 feet from the tree and landed feet-first on his chest, crushing his ribs and all of his vital organs. The canon was fired even before she could say, "And that's what you get when you chase a cat up a tree."

I can recite this games by memory, because unlike _many _of the others, we are forced to watch the few when we have emerged victorious, annually.

Arwen kind of scares me, but I also respecting her for showing the nation that you don't have to be from one of the inner districts to win the games. Too bad she's horribly bipolar and has regular breakdowns at social events, or she might actually rack up some sponsors for the poor tributes of District 10.

Yet I'm glad to have her here as one of my mentors, because the other two (male) victors are completely off their rockers and would be of no help at all. She snaps her fingers in front of my face, suddenly furious.

"I _said_, are you happy to be up?" she growls. Timidly, I reply, "Um, I guess. How long was I out for?" She informs me I have only been sleeping for a few hours, and that it is almost time for dinner. I politely thank her for the help and survey the room. In the corner, one of my crazy mentors fiddles with a piece of lint. Two Avox's, who I now realize were the ones who had tried to hold me down earlier, stand by the door. I shoot the woman an apologetic look for probably giving her a bruise and maybe even internal damage, but she seemingly does not take notice. Her eyes shift to the floor and stay there, no matter how much I silently beckon for her attention. Finally, I give up on her and make my way over the far side of the room. Bellona and a man I cannot see stand chatting about something. They shift slightly, and I realize it is Kit. When he sees me, my regret for the snide comment I made earlier openly shows on my face. It seems neither he nor the Avox girl want to acknowledge my presence today, because he mumbles something to Bellona and exits.

I turn back to Arwen and ask, "May I please go to my room?" She winks and hands me some black leggings, a silver top, undergarments, and a pair of slippers.

"Sure, but I think you might want to put some clothes on first." I look down and realize that, if not for the sheet covering me, I would be naked.

I blush and reply, "Thanks." Arwen shoo's everyone out of the room so I can change. Once I am done, I break into an almost-run in a rushed attempt to find Kit before dinner. He is about to turn into his quarters when I catch him by surprise. I grab his shoulder and step in front of him, blocking his way. He opens his mouth to speak, but not unlike previous events, I open my big, fat mouth first.

"Look, I'm sorry for the way I acted earlier and what I said but you haven't been all that nice to me either and-" Kit puts his hand over my mouth and raises his eyebrow mischievously.

"I have no right to treat you like this and hey, I think you're rambling just a bit," he chortles, but then resigns himself. "Yeah, I know I've been unfair and just a bit confusing; but all of that can stop now. Even though we're in this horrible situation, I don't want to lose you as a friend and I'd like to be there for you until the very end. "

I smile, and it reflects how considerably better I feel. Now, all I have to do is think of a way not to die in the arena, and I'll be set for life. Trying to shake this important yet undesirable thought from my head, I give him a hug and reply, "I couldn't have phrased it better."

Just then, Bellona _clip clop_'s around the corner, but stops and almost retreats. She speaks, sounding embarrassed. "Oh, did I interrupt something?"

Kit and I pull apart and, at the same time, protest, "No!" Bellona giggles and mumbles something that sounds a lot like, "Oh, sure…" before ushering us to a table filled with more food than I've ever seen in my life. I guess I didn't notice it when I arrived on the train, due to my high level of distress, but there are delicacies _everywhere._

When we sit down, I do not even know where to start. Even though I am not exactly starving, I have never seen anything as good as what lies before me. I do not want to overload and make myself vomit, so I vow to try a bit of everything; but my plan does not work well. I find myself with a plate stacked high in less than three minutes. Eventually, I figure since my meals are most likely numbered, I might as well go all out. As I devour my meal (with pretty good manners, might I say so myself) I take note of a few things I like: a light-yellow pudding with crackers and powdered sugar, a broth with chicken and celery and sundried tomatoes, breadsticks that I assume are made in four because of the salty taste and wave-like designs engraved into the front. Just as I reach the bottom of my plate, they bring in a whole new course. This repeats three more times.

Bellona, Arwen, and Kit lightly talk throughout the whole meal, but I'm so focused on the task at hand that I don't even realize I'm being spoken to before the third or fourth time the question is directed at me. I snap out of my food coma and set my attention to Arwen, who looks delighted that she's finally got me to look at her.

"So, do you have any special talents?" she asks between bites of salmon drenched in a creamy oyster sauce. I almost tell her no, but then realize my mistake.

"Well, I've been chopping the heads off of rabbits with an axe for the past seven years, if that counts for anything," I say with a chuckle. Bellona drops her spoon and it lands of the floor with a clatter and stares at me, wide-eyed.

"Wait, you can actually wield a weapon?" she asks with exasperation. I don't know why it is such a big deal, and state as much.

"Most of the people from you district are pretty useless when weaponry comes into the picture," she says matter-of-factly. When Kit and I verbally gasp at her offensive comment, she raises her eyebrows and asks, "What? At least you're decent with survival skills and plant identification." Obviously pleased that she's proved her point, she turns to Kit and asks him for the same information Arwen requested of me. Kit shrugs and locks gazes with his temporarily empty plate.

"I think I qualify in the 'useless tribute from Distict 10' category, for the most part."

Now it is the rest of the table's turn to be shocked. I speak the words that are surely on everyone's mind: "You, useless? How?" He gives me a questionable look.

"I really can't do anything. All I do is sit around in the field with the horses all day and pet them and comb their tails. Miss Lumberjack over here could probably throw an axe from forty feet and hit a moving target dead-center, and she's not even from seven!" he exclaims while flapping his hand at me. I blush and swirl my finger in some stray gravy on the tablecloth. We sit in an awkward silence for more than a minute until Kit and I stand up from the table to dismiss ourselves, almost unified. We laugh at the oddness of the situation, then laugh more simply because we are laughing when we're about to die; we end up waltzing down the hall and to our rooms, laughing still. We hear Bellona mutter something that contains, "Oh, kids in love, how sweet," but we choose to ignore it. The Capitol and their silly representatives will not ruin the first euphoric moment I've had in…well, a long time.

Kit leans up against the frame of my door and hiccups, not from too much wine or food, but from, of course, _laughter_. We stand there until our somehow amusing yet non-existent joke is no longer funny; laughter fizzles out into a giggle here and there.

Then the atmosphere becomes solemn. Kit looks me in the face and gives me a slight grin.

"Now, I'm serious about you being able to win these games. You can do it. You're strong enough, and you're a survivor."

My eyes well up with tears of happiness and my upper lip shakes.

"I don't think anyone has ever been this nice to me since…you know…my dad died." Kit reaches out and wipes a tear from my cheek, and something that feels like butterflies stirs in the pit of my stomach, but like many things, I push it away to think about later. I chuckle to myself and think, _"Oops, force of habit." _Kit's eyes widen and a huge smile creeps onto his face.

"Who wants to play some _cards_?" he exclaims. I jump around and raise my hand like a small child at school. Kit grabs me by that raised hand, pulls me into his room, and introduces so many card games to me that I could explode of information overload.

First, we start with one he calls 'Go Fish.' You simply ask the other person if they have the card you want. If they do, they give it to you, if not; you draw from the deck (a pile of all the unused cards). The person with the most matches when the deck runs out, wins. I turn out to be pretty good at this game, but my big head deflates and flies away when Kit tells me it's a 'child's game.'

He goes on to teach me Poker, Blackjack, Bridge, and many more. It is almost past three in the morning before I pick up all the cards and throw them in the air, laughing maniacally and screeching, "Okay! No more! I give up! I need sleep!" Kit gathers them all up and stacks them in a pile before storing them in his pants pocket. He pats me on the head, rises, and escorts me to my room. I turn to him and say, "Thank you. Thank you for volunteering for Merrit. I don't know what I'd do if that boy was forced into the arena." I pull him into a soft embrace, and then slam the door in his face before stripping down to my underwear and flying into my bed's _softer_ embrace. I'm sure there are some very nice nightclothes somewhere in the room, but the comforter and sheets surrounding me are more than enough by themselves. I wrap myself up like a caterpillar waiting to transform into a beautiful, fluttering creature. I hope that when I wake, I will be beautiful enough to win these games.

I do not receive the sleep I yearn for. Instead, I stay up and ponder all the thoughts I have pushed away today: What is my strategy for surviving? Why did those Capitol citizens unnerve me so much? Have I developed feelings for Kit?

My muddled brain cannot process well enough to find any answers to these important questions, yet they continue to pull and tug at the edge of my sanity. I try to focus on something else, but I only see pictures of my demonically transformed parents dancing across my eyelids when I try to find rest. Finally, somewhere around five, I decide sleep is an impossible task I cannot grasp and flick on the lights. After ruffling through a couple drawers for a while, I find a nightgown inlaid with rabbit fur. It reminds me of home, so I slip it on; I then pull my whole king-sized comforter over myself like a cape and stumble into the dining car and sit at the breakfast bar until Kit wanders in thirty minutes later, looking dazed.

"Whazfurbreafast?" he asks me, obviously still half asleep. I giggle and poke him on the nose.

"_Someone's _not a morning person, hmm?" I tease as a male Avox with rusty colored hair and dark eyes walks in. I feel bad ordering the poor people around, but if they're here, then I might as well use them to my advantage. I ask him for a cup of herb tea for myself and some eggs for Kit. His speed surprises me; he returns in less than two minutes with and exquisite omelet and my cup along with all the condiments, such as honey, sugar, and more. I plop a dollop of everything into my drink and take tiny sips, Kit devours his pre-breakfast, and we watch the red-orange sun rise from behind the beautiful Rockies. I realize that, even though I am being sent to my death, I feel much more content than I have in a long time. I sit at peace, enjoying the sound of Kit dozing off on the couch next to me and the cool breeze from the air vents, which are usually a luxury in my district, until Bellona and Arwen burst into the room and declare the arrival of breakfast. They're such a perfect, peppy team that I dare not interrupt their excited chatter about arriving in the Capitol, even though I am slightly frightened for what I will find there. I speed through the meal I am served, not tasting nor smelling nor applying any other sense; I am too anxious. The train dives into a tunnel carved into the interior of the mountain range surrounding the Capitol. I sit by the window and drum my fingers, waiting to see something other than the grey wall of rock that flies by outside. We whip around the corner and I have to shield my eyes, it is so bright outside. When my eyes finally adjust, they trail up from the sparkling, crystalline water to the place they call the Capitol.


	4. We're All No One

**Words: 3,580**

**A/N: Wow this took like three years to write, but here it is. Plus; happy birthday to me, yay, just turned 3,678,443,000. Enjoy!**

The Capitol is breathtakingly beautiful. Glass buildings tower up into the fluffy clouds surrounding the city. A mob of colorful people swarm around the edge of the city; apparently, waiting for something. Bellona throws up her arms and squeals, "Oh, look, they've set up a welcome committee for us, how sweet!" I roll my eyes and go to wake Kit. After much tugging of his hair and shouting into his ear, Kit is finally awake enough to depart. Arwen points out that I am still wearing my pajamas, so I jog to my room to change. I sift through the already-messy drawers and change into a dress that looks almost identical to the one I am currently wearing, but resides in the clearly marked 'dayclothes' bureau. I chuckle to myself as I realize I will never understand fashion. I feel an unknown emptiness on my wrist and panic.

_My bracelet!_

I immediately drop to the floor and start feeling around for it. I hear Bellona frantically calling for me. The train has arrived. I am about to give up when something under my bed catches my eye. I dive for it and pull out my prize: a shining, silver bracelet. I do a little celebratory jig and then sprint for the front doors of the train. Bellona shoots me a disapproving look for being late, but I ignore it. I slow my breathing and pat down my hair; I must look presentable for my _possible _fans. I must have missed seeing them on the ride in, because I was changing, so now's my chance to make a good impression.

The doors slide open with a whir and my visionary senses immediately overload. The acid colors that cover almost every single person outside burn my eyes, but I resist from shielding them like I have in many situations before. Instead, I put on my most winning smile and wave to these strange people as we walk the short distance to the Remake Center. Kit catches on and does the same, so by the time we enter the building, the crowd is chanting, "District 10! District 10! District 10!"

Bellona looks absolutely delighted that she's finally received a pair of tributes that know what they're doing. Kit glances at me, winks, and mutters, "Good job out there." We are then lead to different compartments and I began one of the most agonizing, tedious processes I've ever endured.

When I first joined the work crew at the community home and was finally starting to get a hang of the axe-wielding thing, Uma _somehow _decided it would be a good idea to let me alone when performing the rabbit beheading ritual. For the first few days, I did well, making clean cuts and managing to get the job done unscathed. Yet on the fifth day, a Sunday, I think, I brought down that axe and sliced off the end of my thumb like you would to a chunk of ham. Blood spurted everywhere and it hurt so bad, I thought I was going to die. For some reason, it found itself at the top of the "Monet's most traumatizing events in her screwed up life" list. I guess, at nine, it _was_ a pretty scary and painful memory.

I honestly don't think it compares to the removal of _every single unnecessary hair on my body_. They start with my armpits, which they decide to _pluck _because it is "too small of an area." Next, they move to my back. There's not much there, but there is still apparently too much for my Avenue of Tributes costume, so that also gets removed, but with wax and tape, this time.

Oh, but the legs are so much worse. The sensation of being skinned alive is the only one that is prominent in my mind during the _hour _it takes them to get me presentable and mostly hairless.

I try to take my mind off of the current situation by studying my very strange prep crew. The people I had seen outside were surely an odd bunch, but Sibera, Rhea, and Mohamed are somehow worse. Since they are more prominent figures in society and work alongside a stylist honored with great prestige, they have developed a more keen sense of fashion. I find out very quickly that, in the Capitol, the more bizarre your ensemble is, the better.

Siberia is the quiet, shy one of the trio; she wears pastels instead of the bright colors plastered onto every single body I've seen so far. She is as thin as a board and shorter than I am, even though she must be in her late twenties. The only problem is that she is completely purple, in every shade and hue. Her shiny Mary Jane's are a deep shade of plum, her stockings are fresco dappled with light orchid, her tight fitting dress is indigo and her hair is tied up into corkscrew curls that are, of course, chalk violet. To top it all off, her whole body shines with a color I can only describe as dusk and her eyes are such a bright shade of periwinkle that they seem to pop right out of her skull. Despite her weird appearance, she mostly keeps her mouth shut; and when she does speak, it is a small, quiet thing and it is usually only to ask me to flip over or reassure me that we're almost done.

Rhea is a completely different story. All though her skin is not dyed, her hair is; and it seems she could not decide on just one color, because it perfectly depicts a rainbow. It's cut very short, yet she constantly reaches up to tuck it behind her ear; I note that she must have once had it styled longer. Her skin is pale and shimmery like the moon. She has somehow fit every color in the spectrum into her outfit, ranging from her deep red armbands to her green legwarmers. Her eyebrows are shaped into little arches, so she seems constantly surprised or excited.

She's much more bubbly than I could usually handle from one person, but I keep my mouth shut as she flutters around me, praising me for my hair and my eyes and my skin, which I think is absolutely ridiculous because I am not in any way attractive. My skin is ashen from malnourishment and my eyes are too bright, to the point where they are disturbing. I do admit, I love my hair, but it is not lustrous or healthy as I would prefer it to be. Yet, to her, I must be some sort of wondrous specimen because I am probably the weirdest-looking tribute she's had the pleasure to torture. When she asks me if I've had my irises surgically altered, it takes all my willpower now to scream, "_We don't even have enough money for food, so how could we afford any of your freaky fashion fads?_"

Instead, I politely shake my head and tell her it's natural. Mohamed comes to my rescue with only a few words in his cat-like purr.

"Of course not, Rhea. They don't do stuff like that out in the districts." Rhea rolls her eyes and dismisses his comment, telling him, "I've never been out there, so how should I know, silly goose?"

Mohamed ignores her and goes back to waxing under my nose and by my eyebrows. By far, I like him the most, simply because I can relate to him in a strange way. His white tee and khakis do not look a whole lot different from what the men wear in my district. Save a few oddly placed piercings over his lip and on his collarbones, he is normal.

_Or so I think. _

He disappears into a dark closet to retrieve more tape, and a faint glowing alarms me so much that I yelp. Mohamed returns, chuckling, and asks me what is wrong. I timidly point to the darkness and inform him that something was glowing inside. Now all three members of the team are laughing. Rhea manages to choke out, "Oh, I forgot, you don't know!" She runs over to the dimmer and flips off the lights. Slowly but surely, Mohamed starts to turn a ghastly green, the colors shifting and changing like water. The only thing I can see is his blinding smile and the light glinting off of his many earrings. Then it's bright again and they are still chuckling about my amazement as they finish up.

All three members of my prep team hover about three centimeters from my skin, plucking away any stray hairs. Finally, Rhea snaps up and proclaims, "Finished…" I am feeling very relieved until she adds, "-with all of that hair!" Next, I am plunged into a bathtub and scrubbed raw. They add in a lot of little beads that are a lot of different colors and smell like a lot of different things, so that when I finally get out and dry off, the water looks like Rhea's hair and smells like a perfume shop.

Siberia gets to work on removing the grime on my nails and shaping them into pretty little squares. Mohamed does the same for my toenails. I get to be up close and personal with Rhea (oh, lucky me) because she is responsible for my makeup. I watch in the mirror as she transforms me from a sixteen year-old girl to a vicious savage. A fake gash on my cheek, dripping blood down my chin; an eye shadow color palette ranging from a soft cream to a rugged brown; dirt smudged on my forehead. I look like I've been in the Games already, and they don't start for a week. I've got to hand it to her; I hate her, but her makeup skills are unmatchable. My face is angular, fierce, and awe strikingly beautiful. My once awkward, piercing eyes now contribute to the look of ferocity and they stand out against the natural-looking adornments.

I glance down and find that Mohamed and Siberia have cleaned up my nails and dirtied them again, but in a more attractive way, with nail polish and other tools. They add more dirt splotches all over and a bloodied bandage to my arm, for good measure. I then am sprinkled with a sparkling dust that makes my skin appear to be just the right amount of glamorous. Siberia uses some kind of hot iron to make my bangs scruffy and slightly curly, than divides my hair in the middle and gives me two braids down my front.

I'm not sure how they're going to represent my district with this, but I've fallen in love with it. I'm admiring myself as they add the finishing touches and realize I am still naked. For a split second, I worry I will stay that way.

As if he has read my thoughts, my stylist enters bearing two garment bags. He drapes them over the chair I had just occupied and reaches out to greet me.

"Hello, I'm Venus, your stylist." I give his hand a firm shake and then stand back a bit to study him. Cropped, black hair, a little less than tan, a couple of gold anklets and a thick bangle on his arm. He wears a pink polo tee and pressed black Capri shorts. His shoes are quite fancy and _clip-clop_ when he walks. He's well dressed, yes, but is there anything special about him? I'm waiting for something like Mohamed's glow-in-the-dark trick to happen, and of course, it does.

Venus opens his eyes and reveals a thousand stars, a nebula, all the planets, and more in the small space his pupils provide. He winks and says, "I could tell you were looking for a piece of the Capitol in me. It seems we've both got eyes that pop." He turns on his heel to the prep team and politely asks them to leave. Siberia shoots out the door just as the words finish flowing from his mouth, without a word of goodbye. Mohamed is the next to go, but not before he waves and chuckles, no doubt still thinking about the surprise his alteration provoked. Rhea is the last to leave; she almost jumps out of the room, apparently excited about the presentation of the tributes tonight. She's still talking Mohamed's ear off about her dress when the door closes. Venus sighs.

"They're a weird bunch, but they get the job done," he chortles. "I assume you'd like to get dressed?" I nod enthusiastically. He hands me a thin, paper robe (which is not exactly what I meant by 'getting dressed') and leads me to sit down in a room completely covered in black furniture. When he turns on the lights, it casts and eerie yet mesmerizing purple glow over everything. He hands me a cup of something he calls coffee and I have a drink. It's bitter, but I like the taste. I take little sips as he explains my chariot costume.

"Most people think you only tend to cows in your district, but I know that is not the case," he says while stirring his tea. I already like him, simply because he shares my views on this subject. "I used many of the other livestock hides from the animals that live in your district. You will be portrayed as a savage, which might be exactly you need, because you are so innocent looking." I scowl a little at this comment, but he just waves his hand and laughs a sly, mischievous laugh. "Would you like something to eat?"

I finger my obviously prominent ribs for a moment before I reply, "Well, not really, but it wouldn't help to get some food in me, if you know what I mean." Again, he laughs, and I find I'm starting to like him very much. He presses a button on the side of the (black, of course) table between us. In seconds, a plate of delicacies appears in front of me; slices of lamb with a side of some kind of tangy sauce and miniature versions of kiwis, strawberries, and mangoes sitting on a bed of granola and frozen yogurt. I eat it carefully, not wanting to disturb my makeup, while Venus explains what the Avenue of Tributes will be like and how I should act.

"I saw you when you came in; throwing kisses and acting like you'd fallen in love with every single member of that crowd. At the open ceremonies, it will be the exact opposite. Do not look at the crowd at all, or if you'd really like to, you need to act bored and unimpressed. You must keep your face serious and almost angry. They'll be so confused as to what happened to your attitude between this morning and tonight and they'll be so intrigued about it they'll have no choice but to sponsor you. Do you get what I'm saying?" I nod, stand up, and proclaim, "I'm ready to be a savage now!" I really just wanted to put real clothes on, but that serves as an adequate excuse. Venus removes himself from the bean bag he'd been settled in and leads me back to the prep room. In the first bag he unzips, I find a brazier made with metal armor and cow hide, a short-cut skirt made of the mane of a bison, a pair of beige leggings that are pre-torn, and, at the bottom, some type of slipper with the outside made of rabbit fur and the inside of cotton from District 10's finest sheep. The second bag holds a spear with all kinds of animal teeth tied to a string at the top, which I find quite intriguing. Yet the real prize is a beautiful headdress, embellished with clay beads and bird feathers and, most importantly, the antlers of what must have once been a very handsome buck. I shed my robe and let Venus help me ever-so-carefully get dressed.

When I look at myself again in a full body mirror, I find I look like a noble warrior. I practice furrowing my eyebrows and setting my mouth in a slight frown while Venus praises me for "perfectly pulling off his costume." We start to joke around and I strike funny poses, so when Bellons rushes in, claiming we are "oh, so very late," we are cracking up and in tears. We are rushed out of the prep room, out of the doors of the building (where I find more oddly dressed people), and into a lavish, long limousine. Lights bounce around the pristine white interior of the car. I fiddle with the refreshment refrigerator while Bellona and Arwen chatter excitedly about what they think everyone will be wearing. Venus and Kit's stylist seem to be discussing our interview outfits; the jumble of six prep crew members giggle and guffaw and joke around in the far back corner, looking like picture perfect Capitol citizens in their glitzy outfits and outrageous makeup. I look around again, thinking I might be mistaken, but I am not. One of the most important members of this carpool is missing. Five minutes go by, and then ten. All talk has stopped in the cab; the only sounds the purr of the engine and the driver, who seems to have developed a cough. Bellona jumps up and stands as straight up as she can (with the low ceiling) and proclaims, "I'm going to find him!" Just then, the door swings open and Kit appears, looking slightly disheveled and dragging the male mentor from 10 behind him. "Sorry we're late, Follum here had a bit of a breakdown." Follum grins sheepishly before getting absorbed in all of the pretty lights around him. Once he is seated next to a pouting Arwen ("but _he's _no fun!"), Kit settles himself next to me and we're off. I have a feeling we might be in trouble for being more than "oh, so very late."

For the first time, I take in Kit's costume. His headdress is similar to mine, but with bigger antlers and more colorful plumage. His chest is bare, yet covered in the same "battle scars" that ravage my body. He wears long pants made of cowhide accompanied with a leather loincloth. His slippers are an exact replica of mine. His spear sits awkwardly in his lap; he fiddles with the beads and casts his eyes to the floor.

"Nervous?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, because I am as well. He chuckles and replies, "Somehow, yes, all though it can't be _too _hard to ignore the people that await my death eagerly." My mouth drops into an "oh" kind of shape and I look around to make sure no one heard, which I soon realize is a stupid idea because I'm sure _they _listen to our every word, nonstop. Kit chuckles as he pops the cap off of a fizzy drink from the bar. "What? I'm going to die anyways, so who cares?" I look at him with hard eyes and again, wonder why his behavior changes so often. He only laughs at the puzzled look on my face. And, also, just as before, we are whipped away from the current situation before I can ask. Before I know it, we stand in the underground compartment below the avenue. There isn't much talk; the snorting of horses and tributes scuttling around like cockroaches are the only sounds that fill in the large space. Venus, and Kit's stylist, Cybele, fuss over our makeup and hair and other insignificant things like that while I observe my competitors. The careers, of course, are immediately intimidating. I expect District Two to be fiercer than any other, but, despite the fact that they are burly and can most likely wield a weapon, they look dim-witted and petty. They run around their chariot, apparently engaged in a game of tag with the pickaxes that represent their industry. The District One tributes look on disapprovingly, a much more intelligent gleam in their eyes. Their costumes mostly consist of a jewel my mind places as being called a ruby; but instead of meeting the expectations and appearing elegant, they look like a thousand blood droplets against their skin, making their angular faces seem even more sinister and murderous.

The tributes from six are wrapped around each other, oblivious to their surroundings.

The boy from eleven sits on the ground, tapping his fingers to no particular beat and muttering to himself. I remember to keep an eye out for the kid because something about him seems to be just a bit…off.

Bellona springs up behind me and grabs me by the shoulders. "You must be wondering who all your lovely new friends are; we forgot to watch the reapings after your…accident. We'll watch them when we get home, I pinky promise!" I am appalled at the use of the name "friends" to describe the twenty three kids (counting Kit, just in case) that want to kill me, but I instead politely nod and let her skip away to do whatever Bellona does in her spare time.

Venus leads us up to our chariot and arranges us so we are facing forward. "Remember. Straight faces. No love for the crowd. You got it?" We nod in unison and then the door slides up and we move into a unified wall of sound.


End file.
